


a million years ago

by Rosyredlipstick



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of kidnapping, Reunion, Separation, references to sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9682346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosyredlipstick/pseuds/Rosyredlipstick
Summary: Six years ago, Dean Thomas had broken down in a sea of first-year tears and admitted, through rough hiccups, that he didn’t even have a father.Seamus, with wide eyes, simply stated, “We can share mine, mate.”Now, with stiff and pale bodies surrounding them, Seamus stared at the ground and whispered in a broken, soft voice, “I don’t know how anyone can come out the other end of this the same. I...I don’t even think I have a heart anymore.”Dean, staring at the same ground, gripped at the other boy’s hand and pretended it wasn’t sticky with blood. “We can share mine, mate.”





	

_I miss the air, I miss my friends_  
_I miss my mother, I miss it when_  
_Life was a party to be thrown_  
_But that was a million years ago_

Six years ago, Dean Thomas had broken down in a sea of first-year tears and admitted, through rough hiccups, that he didn’t even have a father.

Seamus, with wide eyes, simply stated, “We can share mine, mate.”

Now, with stiff and pale bodies surrounding them, Seamus stared at the ground and whispered in a broken, soft voice, “I don’t know how anyone can come out the other end of this the same. I...I don’t even think I have a heart anymore.”

Dean, staring at the same ground, gripped at the other boy’s hand and pretended it wasn’t sticky with blood. “We can share mine, mate.”

* * *

Dean doesn’t even know when it started.

There was no revelation of waking up one particularly cloudy morning and realizing that he was in love with Seamus Finnigan. There was no crazed, drawn out attempt at denying his non-complicated feelings for the other boy. Dean had simply looked up from his potions essay one evening after dinner, saw the other boy bent over his own roll of parchment, and decided that this, seeing Seamus across him from everyday, wouldn't be too bad.

He’d kiss the other boy the next day, and Seamus would smile in the way that Dean knew he'd felt the same way.

It was simple, uncomplicated in those days.

They were simple, and it was easy.

Until it wasn't.

* * *

That morning, in their shared, temporary space they would call their home for a bit, it was almost like any other day.  But it wasn’t, and this fact could only be proven by the hidden minuscule details of the room, such as the small packed bag shoved under the bed, Dean’s missing toothbrush from the cup in the bathroom, and the hardly used coat carefully draped over the nearest chair.

Seamus, of course, would sleep in until the last possible moment, usually around the time when the morning was spilling into the afternoon. He would wake up slowly but loudly, groaning and stretching until his bones were popping, with his eyes still drooping until any form of coffee was shoved into his weak hands. Dean, of course, had no such habits. Dean had two settings - asleep and wake, never a state of in between. In one moment to the next, he was awake and his eyes were open and alert. He was quiet, his only tell being the smoothing out of his deep, heavy sleep breathing.  

Dean watched and memorized Seamus sleep - his sprawled out limbs, how the sheets pooled at his lower back, the way that his messy hair fanned across the pillow - and he almost - _almost_ \- wanted to forget it all and crawl back into bed. His fingers craved for his charcoal set, itching to immortalize Seamus’s long, thin fingers as they gripped at the sheets, and his bare toes hanging off their crappy too-small mattress. Dean picked himself up off their bed though, and shook those thoughts out of his head. He dressed himself in the stiff, hardly worn thick coat he’d been gifted years before, and a pair of muggle jeans that were soft at the knees.

He didn’t leave a note - there was nothing Dean could say that Seamus didn’t already know.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripped his bag, and made sure to lock the bedroom door behind him.

Every step down the staircase was like a stab in the chest, and he shouldn't help but feel grateful that everyone in his family were heavy, late sleepers.

He didn't feel too bad for folding Seamus into his family category. Not even a bit.

He paused, his hand on the door, hesitation in his breath and heart, and only the thought of yesterday's Prophet headline - _Family of Muggleborn targeted, Seven Dead -_ had his feet moving forward, and the door locking behind him.

Seamus had been living with them over the summer - his own mother and father escaping into the States for the time being. Before the term ended Seamus had been receiving multiple letters from them every day, each begging for him to attend them to the States. Seamus, his eyes always lingering on his boyfriend, never wrote back, and offhand asked if he spend the summer months with Dean.

Dean, confused but always willing, grinned and ruffled the other boys hair with an _of course._ Because _of course._

Seamus’s eyes would catch on Dean’s broad shoulders, the ones that were currently shaking with laughter, and his dark eyes that held everything Seamus had ever wanted, and was certain.

* * *

On Dean’s thirteenth birthday, he wasn’t expecting any presents.

His mother had always been tight on money, and Nahilah and Naomi had just been born a month previously. He was hoping for a birthday letter, at most, but hey, his mother was trying to raise four girls under the age of ten while he was away, and he understood.

But Seamus had always been one to surprise him.

Because when he woke up on the morning of his birthday, it wasn’t to his usual wake-up call of Weasley bemoaning the existence of mornings, but to a heavy weight falling across his legs.

He sat up instantly, his eyes already open and clear. He didn’t know what he was expecting - he was used to this at home when there was at least one person always awake at all hours - but he managed to sometimes sleep in at school.

And, as Dean blinked to himself in surprise, Seamus was sitting up from his place on Dean’s legs, grinning widely and brilliantly.

“Happy Birthday mate!” He exclaimed, probably waking up the rest of their dormitory in the moment. He was bouncing up and down, putting no concern to his current place on Dean’s body.

But Dean couldn’t resist a grin. “Get off my legs, ya Irish goblin. I’m tryin’ to sleep over here.”

Seamus did as told, instead settling on the edge of the bed. “It’s your birthday! You’re thirteen, ya old man!”

Dean snorted, flipping the blanket over his shoulders. The tower tended to get especially cold in the morning, and he must have forgotten the warming charm he tended on most nights.

“Thanks Sea.” Dean only answered, pulling his legs up. It seemed like he wasn’t going to be falling asleep again, and the rest of their dormmates seemed to be coming to the same idea. He stretched, pushing his blankets off. “Let’s go get some breakfast before Weasley eats all the bacon, yeah?”

There was a noise of protest from the other side of the room, but Seamus paid it no attention. He only grinned wider, jumping up.

“You have to open your presents! It’s your birthday!”

Dean shook his head, ready to quietly explain what Seamus probably already knew, but cut him off as Seamus reached towards his bed, bringing back a newspaper wrapped box.

Seamus jumped back to his position, taking up more space on Dean’s bed then Dean currently was. “Here!” He only happily announced, shoving the box into Dean’s surprised hands.

Dean held out the package, the Daily Prophet playing out across the paper wrapping. It was slightly heavy, and rattled when Seamus had jotled with it.

“I -” Dean swallowed.

“Open it!” Seamus urged instead.

Dean dipped his head, and did so - carefully, and so slowly he could nearly feel Seamus vibrating with excitement.

He laid the paper to the side - he would probably be keeping it - and stared at the golden box in complete wonder.

Seamus smiled coyly, and it wasn’t like his usual sharp grins. “It’s a charcoal set, you know, muggle way. Like all the real artists had.”

Dean was nodding, his fingers tightening on the box. “Thank you Seamus.” He said first, softly, because his mother raised him to be polite. “I - I love it.”

Seamus’s grin turned familiar and sharp. “Now you can draw me!” He exclaimed, posing, and laughing when Dean kicked him softly, still absorbed in the gift.

Ron and Harry were standing behind Seamus now, laughing, and Neville was frantically shuffling through his truck. Ron and Harry threw a small package onto his blanket, explaining they went in a present together and that it was totally awesome - and it was! Coloring changing pencils, no spell required - his sisters would adore them when he returned home - and Neville finally emerged, looking relieved, with a package of chocolate frogs, hoping Dean would get the Ptolemy card he was looking for.

Seamus grinned at him surrounded by his precious gifts, not realizing how much this was to Dean. He wouldn’t realize for a while, how much he meant to Dean.

“Happy Birthday Dean!”

* * *

On Dean’s eighteenth birthday, he was completely sure he was going to die.

It was his fault, really, and that was the worst part. He had risked it - it was stupid. He just wanted to send off a quick letter - just a quick, scribble to let his family know he was alive - and they’d caught him.

The Snatchers kept jolting him around, demanding his name and shaking him until he felt like his head was going to snap completely off.

He muttered a name, even now unsure what he had said. It must have been the wrong thing to say, completely wrong from how they instantly threw him on the ground, each pulling out their wands.

He, on the cold, rain soaked gravel of Diagon Alley, - only feet from where he and Seamus had once kissed under one of the streetlights when it was dark and warm - stared at the end of the wand, and thought _This is how I’m going to die._

He desperately thought of his sisters laughs, and his mother’s warm eyes, and how they would never know what happened to him. His time at Hogwarts - remembered in faded yellows - flashed by his eyes like the licks of a flame. He thought of Harry's fierce scowl and Ron’s loud jokes, and Hermonie’s soft voice always willing to talk him through a complex spell. He saw Ginny’s wide, sharp grin and Neville’s small smile he only shared after he solved a particularly difficult problem.

But he mostly thought of Seamus.

Seamus, when he was small and scrawny in first year. How Seamus was the first one to make him laugh, and always the last one he spoke to at night. Fourth year, when Dean was just beginning to notice how well he’d grown. Fifth year, when they’d first kissed, and then much other firsts. Sixth year, when they’d all grown up too fast, and much too grim.

He saw all of this in the matter of seconds, and he almost completely missed what the Snatchers were muttering.

Because moment later, he wasn’t dead, his wand was taken, and within the minute he was being apparated and thrown in a musty basement with dust in the air.

* * *

He thought of Seamus a lot those first few weeks.

He curled into himself in a corner, and thought almost obsessively, of the pale lines of the other boy’s chest, and the short pink scar that ran down the other boy's calf from a flying accident. He thought of the soft colored freckles that splashed over the other boy's shoulder blades, and the way he would ramble nonsense in his sleep, incapable of silence even in sleep.

He thought of how Seamus always made him laugh, and his chest glow with happiness. How Seamus would always catch Dean’s wrist first before moving down and lacing their fingers together. Seamus, as he kissed down Dean’s chest, would always drag his fingernails down Dean’s sides, leaving marks that would ache for hours. How Seamus’s neck would burn red as Dean leaned in for a kiss in the Great Hall, but always over-eager to share a lip-lock.

He did that for a long time, just laid there and thought and wondered when they were finally doing to do it, and why they were even waiting. On the bad nights - really bad nights - he would wake up from a nightmare, and he’d see You-Know-Who in the doorway, staring at him, and he’d always swallow his scream before his vision clear and he realized he was completely alone.

Dean began to plan.

Myla would be the oldest sibling when he died and – and that was good. Myla was smart, and she’d take care of their mother once – if – they ever found out what happened to him. Their mother would be ruined for a few months, but she was a survivor and after awhile she’d be okay – they would all be okay. Even Seamus, with how his fingers used to dig into Dean’s forearm and promise _forever –_ he’d be okay. They would all move on and be okay and _alive._

Even down here, alone and curled in a ball and obsessively thinking through the time after him, he couldn’t find himself to regret that. Leaving.

Because they were _alive._ He knew it.

* * *

At the moment, he was thinking of his charcoal set, the one from third year, the one he’d treated like gold bars instead of the cheap char and ash sticks they were, that was currently crushed and broken in a ditch on the other side of London. The single picture he'd taken, his last lifeline to every he'd left behind, the one taken last year at Christmas, was crumbled under the set, ripped and wrinkled and everything Dean was feeling like in that moment. He muttered softly to himself, reminding himself of how Professor Trelawney used to do the same thing in her office alone, but – but it was nice. To actually hear his voice instead of the crippling, ringing silence.

And then, just like that, the moment was shattered. The loud cellar door was being thrown open, but instead of a small loaf of bread hitting the ground like it did occasionally, it was a man crashing against the cement, an elderly man that was all bones and thin skin, and Dean was pressed against his side before he had taken another other breath.

The man was bleeding, a shallow wound from his forearm, likely a apparition gone wrong from the circular spin pattern of the cut. He – he learned that at Hogwarts, he vaguely thought, and remembered Hermonie flipping through a few articles about the gruesome subject.

Dean swallowed, feeling a bit numb, but used his few possessions to the best of his ability. The dusty rag he had found in one of the corners was curled in his hand, and his meager allowance of water was being pressed into the panting mans mouth. He vaguely recognized him, Dean was realizing, and the elderly man was having nearly the same realization.

Until the day he died, Mr. Ollivander would attest to the fact of how Dean Thomas had saved his life in a musty, dark cellar when he’d given up all hope.

And Dean Thomas, his eyes heavy with that darkness that seemed to go on forever, would proclaim the same.

* * *

They had allowed them a bit more food since Mr. Ollivander had arrived, and Dean had no idea how he could be so grateful to such horrible people.

He was bent over the other man, soaking the bland bread in water a bit to soften it and passing it along to the other man, when the door crashed open once again - much too soon to be the bread and water given to them nearly an hour ago. They both snapped up, Dean hurriedly putting down their cup of water with a clash, and stood, angling himself in front of the older man. His eyes had to take a moment to adjust to the sudden light, but even when they did, Dean had to blink back in surprise.

Because Luna Lovegood was in the doorway, stepping carefully down the dirty steps, which was absolutely horrible because although Dean was never close friends with the girl, Harry and Ginny both seemed to have a soft-spot for the Ravenclaw and she always seemed nice enough and no one deserved to be thrown down into a moldy, cold basement to die and this was _horrible_ but –

But she was smiling.

“Oh, it’s just lovely to see you, Dean. I was wondering where you’d gone off too.” Luna gave him a pleasant smile. “As for you, Mr. Ollivander, you’ve aged particularly well, I see.”

The door crashed shut behind her, the sound of the lock sliding shut echoing through the small space, but she paid it no attention.

She walked over to them, frowning only a bit at Ollivander’s still-healing wound, and slowly sat cross-legged. Her blonde hair flowed down her back, and when she tilted her head, it brushed against the dirt on the floor.

“Luna.” Dean finally breathed out, bending down to sit with them. “Luna, you’re…here.”

“What do they want with a young girl like you?” Ollivander asked, his voice weak and tired. Dean frowned, passing over the cup with an urging hand until the man finally took it.

She shrugged, looking as casual as if they were just having a quick chat in the Great Hall. “My father, I assume.” She told them after a second, her voice full of air. “He’s been publishing anti-Voldemort articles in the recent issues of the _Quibbler._ ”

Dean had to fight the shiver at her casual use of the name. “They grabbed you? Weren’t you at Hogwarts?”  

She nodded, “I was traveling home for the Easter celebration Father and I have.” She frowned, “I do hope he remembers to feed the Blibbering Humdingers. They only appear once a year, you know.”

Dean took a breath, steadying the shock of panic at shot up in him. “It’s…Easter?”

Luna nodded, “April 13th. The Humdingers are scheduled to appear on the 15th, in the moment between night and dawn.” Her gaze turned dreamily, much too dreamily for such a horrible place, “I’ve heard they’re beautiful.”

Dean was still nodding, absorbing the information. “My family must be so worried.” He muttered, leaning back onto the concrete wall.

Ollivander squeezed his shoulder, much stronger than he was before, and nodded. Dean had already shared with him, and Ollivander also, but Luna only cocked her head to the side.

She picked at a piece of thread sticking out of her jumper. “I haven’t seen you in school. Everyone assumed you stayed with your family for the year.”

Dean glanced away. “I left my family in late August – it was too dangerous to keep around them. I managed to stay on my own for a while, a few months until –“ _my birthday_ he swallowed, “Until December. They caught me and brought me here.” He gave her a half-shrug, still a bit unbelieving that she was here, in her bright jumper and soft colored tights and pink patterned trainers.

He took a careful breath, weighting his next words before speaking.

“Have you seen Seamus? At school?” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, the ache that been in his entire being

Luna nodded, “Yes. I have seen him with Ginny and Neville. They have been running the D.A. in the absence of Harry Potter.”

Part of him wanted to curse Seamus, for throwing himself in the danger that Dean was desperately, desperately trying to keep from him. The rest of him simply sagged in relief, nodding.

Hogwarts wasn’t the safest place in the world, but it was better then what he hoped for.

Seamus was okay.

He briefly entertained the thought of being able to see him again. Of being able to run in his arms and bury his face in the other boy’s neck and finally breathe free for the first time in months. He briefly entertained the thought of not dying down here, being able to hug his mother again and watch his little sisters grow older and be with Seamus and grow old himself.

He shook those thoughts – the ridiculous thoughts that would no doubt consume and destroy him if he fell to deep in drowning hope – and listened closely to Luna’s airy voice explain how she was captured.

* * *

Griphook was next, thrown in the same fashion they all had been. This time, Luna was the first one up and at his side, carefully looking for any injuries.

The goblin growled, “Get off of me, girl!”

“Sorry, sir.” She frowned at a cut on his forehead, steadily bleeding. “But you are bleeding. Would you mind if I helped?”

Dean was carefully lowering Ollivander off his shoulder where he had leaned for a nap, so he completely missed the surprised, slightly thrown, look Griphook shot Luna as she bend down to be eyelevel.

“All we have is a bit of water.” She pulled off the scarf she used to pull up her hair, “Would you mind?”

He stared at her for a long moment, the blood dripping into the corner of his eyes, and finally nodded.

Dean helped her carefully tie the fabric around Griphook’s forehead, cleaning the dirt out carefully, and lead them both over to Ollivander, now awake, was waiting.

As if a sick tradition, they listened to Griphook’s story, each retelling the abridged tale of their own. Dean wondered if they would be doing this again, and wished it not on any soul. 

They were like that for weeks, he thinks. Speaking softly to each other, usually never too far from the other. They mostly stuck to Ollivander’s corner, telling each other stories they’d never think to tell or hear in any other circumstance. Dean learned how Ollivander made his first wand, and Griphook spoke softly about his wife, and his worry about her, in equal measure. His heart broke when Luna told them, still with air in her voice, about her mother, and her hope for the safety of her father and numerous fantasy-sounding creatures.  
And Dean…Dean told them about Seamus.

About falling in love with him and their years at Hogwarts and _leaving_ him. Dean spoke about his sisters and his mother and hoped against whatever odds there were that they were safe, and that Seamus was safe.

Dean always stuck close to Ollivander, and Griphook seems to like Luna the most, with her patient listening ear and soft smiles. Dean and Luna always sat together though, and on the roughest of nights where Ollivander’s wound was burning like hot and most of them couldn’t sleep without a nightmare, their hands found each other in the dark, and squeezed roughly at the other’s hand.  
Dean wondered if they’d be here forever, when and how they’d die. Probably if the death eaters just decided they were too much trouble, via spell, or if they just stopped throwing down their meager food and water.

Dean was a details kind of guy, and on the worst nights, he came to a conclusion: they had nearly an entire bowl of water saved up from the bottom of the cup at the end of the night. They were all going to die, yes. But if through starvation or dehydration, maybe one of them could last.  But yes, most of them were going to die. Ollivander first, his old age and injury needing more than they had. Griphook next, always refusing anything until Dean and Luna had their share. Dean next, as he’d refuse anything once they realized they were low, but would probably last longer than the other two men due to his young age and almost-still-there muscle. But Luna – Luna might be able to make it. It would be horrible, stuck in the moldy basement with three dead bodies and it might ruin her but – but she might be able to survive. Maybe someone would find her, realize they were all still down here, and she could survive on the bowl for awhile. She smiled at the death eaters when they briefly came in to make sure none of them have died, and spoke with a voice of happiness. She was too good to die down here, and they all knew it. She could _make_ it.

They’d already told each other their _If I don’t survive…_ declarations. She knew. She would tell his family and…and tell Seamus. He knew she would.

Luna could survive this. She _needed_ to.

* * *

That was life for a long time.

Crying and telling stories and sharing crusts of food and sips of water. Dean, mentally planning grotesque details for what was probably going to happen, sat against the wall, Luna at his side as usual, as she went on about one of her favorite creatures - Crumple-Horned Snorkacks – when the door slammed open again, and Dean’s heart dropped because that meant the plan would be ruined and he’d have to start over and Luna _had_ to get out and some poor soul -

But then Harry Potter was there - Ron yelling up the corridor – and Hermonie nowhere to be seen.

He…he didn’t know what was going on. Nothing was making sense and – he didn’t know what was going on.

* * *

They weren’t going to die in a moldy basement, he vaguely thought.

* * *

 

In one moment to the next, they were back at Hogwarts. Luna, always, at his side, Ollivander healing and Griphook helping with Harry’s next desperate adventure.

Dean was thrown in loud, bright room, filled to the brim with emotion and light. There was tension in the air, but they were greeted like heroes, and familiar faces – faces Dean thought he’d never see again – were flashing by, pulling him and Luna away and into hugs. Ginny Weasley was there, sobbing into Luna’s shoulder, and catching his eye and hand as he dipped around them, filling him with warmth from the simple action.

His hands were slightly shaking, letting himself being pulled into hugs and watching as people wiped at their cheeks at the sight of them. He swallowed, his eyes frantic over the crowd. Lee Jordan had announced them coming in, ecstatic, and – and he should have heard that, right? And he was so scared to ask someone – anyone – and the words were choking in his throat -

And then Seamus was being crushed into him.

"I'm so mad at you." The other boy muttered, his hands betraying him as they tangled deep into Dean's dirty, kinky hair. He pressed his dry, chapped lips to Dean's neck, his mouth stumbling over old Irish prayers he used to know, and he didn't even seem to notice, or care, about the thick layer of dirt over the other boy's skin. “I thought you were - I thought -”

Dean gripped at his shoulders, the groves and bones so heart wrenchingly familiar, and he buried his nose deep in Seamus's neck, inhaling the sweat and dust that covered both of their skin.

He was sobbing, he realized, sobbing as he clenched with too-thin fingers at Seamus’s body, Seamus, because Seamus was here and that meant Dean was free, he was free, and he wasn’t going to _die_ in concrete basement.

"Where did you go." Seamus would ask - command - after they'd reluctantly pull away, unseperating, until they found a corner, the war quiet for now.

"Away." He stated obviously, so stupidly, but he – he couldn’t. Not now.

Seamus stares at Dean - so much older since they last shared a bed despite the months - and repeated himself.

"Where did you go."

Dean sighed, mostly to clear out his emotion but also to clear his quickly tightening throat. "Shay," Dean looked up, meeting the other boy's clear colored, clouded eyed. "We both know you're eventually going to the get the story out of me. Just - right now..." Dean's eyes were desperate, his eyes flickering over every curve and wrinkle of Seamus's young face, and his hands twitched for a comfort he couldn't have. "Tell me something good. I…I haven’t heard anything good in awhile."

Seamus watched him, swallowing down his own beat of emotion at the hollow vulnerability in the other boy's voice. "Tamika's birthday just passed."  
Dean's breath caught.

"We got her those dirt-less self-growing seeds she's wanted." He continued, and both of them ignored how wobbly his voice was becoming, but only Dean could hear the slight twinge of proud that came along with his words. "Her garden is coming along wonderfully."

"I told them you were called away on Ministry business." Seamus told him, his voice high and eyes red with emotion. "Your mother misses you - I've gotten nearly a dozen knitted sweaters she's told me to pass on, not to mention the ones she's gifted me."

Dean tipped his torso forward, his forehead resting on Seamus's shoulder as the other boy highlighted the past few months. Minutes in, Seamus's hand found itself curled around Dean's waist, only gently pulling him closer.

"You didn't have to stay." Dean told him, unsure how to make the phrase come out as a thank you.  

There was tears in his voice, tears he couldn’t just yet let run down his cheeks.

Seamus's voice was as soft as the gentle fingertips that traced over the back of Dean's hands. "I wasn't just going to leave them, Dean. Someone had to protect them." His words carried no blame, they were only stated as a soft fact.

When Dean spoke, his voice was raw. “I needed to protect them too.”

* * *

 

And the war was over, Harry was alive and so was Seamus and so was _he,_ and he was sobbing _so hard_ as Luna crashed into him, her arms tight around his waist as she, wonderful Luna, cried into his dirty clothes with the same relief and wariness and fear he was feeling.

Seamus was there, wrapping himself on Dean’s other side, each one of them shaking and laughing and sobbing into the other. Dean had blood on his hands, he realized, from when he was helping in the make shift infirmary, and it was getting all over Luna.

She didn’t seem to notice or care – they were both covered in enough dirt and blood to last a lifetime.

Luna pulled away, red-cheeked, her eyes just as sparkling as everyday in the cellar. Her eyes flickered to Seamus at his back, now pulling away, and nearly sagged with another wave of relief.

“Seamus.” She smiled, real and wide. “I am _so_ glad you’re alright.”

She pulled him in for a tight hug, probably confusing Seamus a bit, but hell, everyone was hugging each other, so high on solace and exhaustion. He’d tell Seamus later, tell Seamus everything, but right now – right now he just threw his arm over Seamus’ shoulders, grabbed Luna’s hand, and lead them to the Great Hall. Luna would softly kiss his cheek, such hesitant and scared emotion in her eyes that Dean hadn’t ever really seen in her before.

After months curled together, everyday wondering if today was going to be the day he died – it was so difficult to pull away from her, smiling softly, as she ran off to find her father.

Seamus and Dean were surrounded by other war-torn students, some younger than they were, and too-many bodies laid still, covered by pale colored blankets and surrounded by crying peers.

They would sit and cry, clenching at each other. Seamus would stare at the ground, proclaiming he didn’t have a heart anymore, and Dean would swear he’d never heard anything as wrong as that.

Seamus was _his_ heart – he was excitement and the wind that urged him forward in small smiles. He was the wheeze after a bout of laughter - the feeling of your first spell back at Hogwarts after a summer of nothing, when it felt like the magic was waking up in your chest, curling and warming up in anticipation.

Seamus not having that warmth – that heart in him – was impossible. Improbable. Illogic.

But Dean didn’t say that. Seamus – Seamus didn’t need to hear that right now.

Instead, he only gripped at the other boy’s hand and pretended it wasn’t slick with blood. “We can share mine, mate.”

The Great Hall, together curled on a single cot, was where they would both slowly break apart. It would take awhile for the other to put them back together but – but it would happen. They would do it together.

Someday.

* * *

They found out after that Griphook had died. They mourned.

* * *

Later, much later, after Dean had sent a fast letter to his mother, telling her he was coming home, and people and bodies were being walked out of the crumbling Hogwarts, he and Seamus were finally alone. Truly alone.

They were in one of the overflowing inns in Diagon Ally, needing privacy and rest in equal measure. They were leaving tomorrow for his mother’s. Hogwarts was in horrible mess, but they’d both be back. One day.

The door crashed open, a bit too familiarly, except now Seamus’ hands were twisted in his shirt, and they were chest-to-chest, and Dean was warmer than he’d felt in awhile.  
"I don't think I can ever forgive you for that." Seamus told him through desperate kisses, their tongues and morals tangling.

Dean stripped his shirt, thankful for the dim lighting that hid his overexposed ribs and too pale skin. He was dirty, disgusting probably, but the only thing he wanted in that moment was to feel Seamus pressed against him, Seamus’s weight heavy on top of him, Seamus’s hands in his hair, and along his back and pressing against his skin and -

Seamus.

All he wanted in that moment was Seamus.

* * *

He told Seamus the story with nearly an entire bottle of firewhiskey filling his stomach. His tongue was still burning, his skin a flushed warmth, and the words were spilling out of him.

He told him about the months on the run and, in a quieter voice, about getting caught, and the time by himself and then Ollivander and then Luna and then Griphook and their time together.

His tongue was loose enough to mention the plan, and loose enough to explain it when Seamus asked.

He didn’t notice how white Seamus’s knuckles went around the table, clenching, but he did notice how tightly he curled around Dean that night.

He’d regret telling him in the morning – it wasn't anywhere near the abridged version Dean had been planning on sharing – but Seamus would only shake his head and pull him against his chest and – and it would be okay.

* * *

The memorial was held at Hogwarts, one year after the end of the war.

Everyone – everyone able – was there. The Professors, and all the students, but also the Weasleys and Hermonie, along with Harry and a blue-haired infant, and Neville was right there too, grinning slightly at the whole sight. Press, of course, but also graduated students who weren’t even there, and parents and more wizards and witches then Dean had ever seen in one place. Muggleborn family members and some American and French students, along with an entire bus full of Durmstrang students, all of their heads bowed down in respect. Even an array of Slytherin students, all adorned in dark, neatly pressed cloaks, stood apart, but stood silently and politely.

Luna was there, dressed in a soft blue to contrast against their mostly dark appeal. Ollivander was on her arm, limping softly, and they both caught his eye as they walked in, understanding when he waved them on.  Seamus, of course, was there, his mother reluctantly along, depending on him to lead her through the hallways.  

Dean breathed the clean, cold air, and his eyes fluttered shut. He was wearing one of his charcoal cloaks, still a bit too baggy even when it was several sizes smaller than his previous. But it was fitting better than it had months before, and Dean was allowed to count that as a win.

Hogwarts was truly a beautiful place.

They had recreated the building to scale, with the addition of a nicely done plague for those lost in the war-time hanging in the Great Hall. The forbidden forest was still growing, but nature would always heal itself. Even from here, Dean could spy the fields of fresh grass just starting to sprout from the dirt.

The first few months, Ollivander and Luna were over once a month, carefully hesitant and almost awkward at the beginning. They’d make bitter tea and speak quietly about their lives and how hard it was to move on, and Seamus would sit with him until some of the details were too much and he’d move into the kitchen to clench at the counters and take breaths.

Luna would talk about her father mostly, but also about Ginny and Harry and usually fill them in on their classmates. Ollivander would once mention how much trouble he was having running the wand shop, and by the end of the meeting Luna would be his official assistance.

Ollivander would move in into their spare bedroom after a few months, unable to live on his own anymore, and Dean enjoyed it a lot more he thought. He and Seamus got on spectacularly; discussing dragon heartstrings and faerie skin in equal excitement, and Ollivander actually seemed _willing_ to try Seamus’s new, vaguely threatening sounding dishes.

They had each written to Griphook’s wife, each of them with vivid stories he told about her and his _if case I die…_ promise long sense memorized. That time had been rough, speaking about that over untouched cold tea, remembering how thirsty and hungry they’d get, how much dirt and hurt that cellar held.

Dean was still having trouble eating his fill, but the tea cakes Luna would make were good, and she always made much too many, and everything was always easier for a few hours.

Over tea, without thinking, he would draw them. Luna, feeding a pleased-looking Ollivander a tea cake, and Seamus laughing in the background. Little Wrackspurts floating along all their heads, sunshine splashing across the table.

By the time he was done, brushing the lead pieces and eraser shavings off the thin napkin, he realized he hadn’t drawn since _before._

Seamus would hang it in the hallway, in one of those chessy _family_ frames but – but Dean didn’t stop him, and it kind of made sense.

It was all starting to make sense.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo first HP fic in years. I haven't written anything in the HP world since I was 14, and I forgot how much FUN it was. I might possibly return to this world :)  
> Title & excerpt from 'A Million Years Ago' from our holy mother Adele.  
> I understand that this does not follow the canon storyline - I took some creative license with the idea.  
> This has been sitting in my googledocs for around a year now and I finally decided to finish and post it.  
> Please - review and kudos if you enjoyed! I would love to write more in the HP world if people enjoy it :)  
> P.S. the working title for this was "dean thomas is an angsty cinnamon roll" just thought you should know  
> Thank you SO much for reading! I would love to read any of your thoughts.  
> Find me on tumblr at my mostly PJatO blog rosyredlipstick.tumblr.com. I love company! :)  
> Thanks! - Rosy


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